


THIS IS MORE ★

by elfroot



Series: Of Pride and Redemption [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks have passed since their reunion atop the stairs of Skyhold, Dorian's arms a memory that lingers heavy on his mind. Neither of them have taken the next step, and Cullen decides it's high time he makes an actual move; it's Matchmaker Day, after all. Brief mention of Solas, potential spoilers.<br/><span class="small">Calloused fingers clasped around a dozen fragile stems. Blurs of vibrant colors and subtle aroma under his nose. Petals falling, graceful swirls of crimson pooling at his feet from the trembling of his hand, and<i> Maker's breath, it isn't how you hold a bouquet of flowers</i>, but his wrist won't stop shaking and he won't push the door open. He stalls, restless in the confines of his quarters, holding on to roses and nightshades like he would a sword and a shield—like he would on the battlefield. But he wears no armor here, his knightly gear and maned pauldrons put aside in favor of simple trousers and a loose shirt, and he feels terribly bare.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	THIS IS MORE ★

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for all the kudos, all the kind feedback and overall support. you've kept me going despite this terrible writing rut i'm in. this piece was specifically written for valentine's day, so it's full of fluffy fluff—next part of this series should involve a generous dose of explicit goodness. it's only fair, yeah? happy valentine's day!

                Calloused fingers clasped around a dozen fragile stems. Blurs of vibrant colors and subtle aroma under his nose. Petals falling, graceful swirls of crimson pooling at his feet from the trembling of his hand, and _Maker's breath_ , _it isn't how you hold a bouquet of flowers_ , but his wrist won't stop shaking and _he_ won't push the door open. He stalls, restless in the confines of his quarters, holding on to roses and nightshades like he would a sword and a shield—like he would on the battlefield. But he wears no armor here, his knightly gear and maned pauldrons put aside in favor of simple trousers and a loose shirt, and he feels terribly bare. _Will it be enough_? There's no commander behind his bashful offering, no barked orders and no report to study. There's no troops to inspire, no enemy to conquer, no ally to protect. There's only a man, hair slightly hirsute from having raked his hand through it one too many times, and he fusses and he stirs and he twitches, and he wonders, abstractly, who is Cullen without his armor? Cullen without a mission. Cullen with too much time on his hands—with a bouquet of flowers _in_ his hand, heart barfing into his throat every time Dorian touches the back of his mind. 

_He is whoever he wishes to be_ , and it's a dreadful thought, as appeasing as it sounds. He hasn't seen Dorian since the day Corypheus died—since the breach was sealed and his arms were full of him. _Home is where the heart is_ , and he remembers. He'd felt bold, then. Relieved. He'd crushed Dorian against his chest with all the desperation that had overcome him during his absence, intent on never leaving his side again. But he has, prisoner of his own doubts, and a plethora of furtive glances and demure smiles later, he's back to square one, wondering how and why Dorian would want the man underneath plate and steel. It's absurd, because Dorian is _here_ , alive and away from Tevinter, and Cullen knows he's waiting for him, but he doesn't know how to stop waiting for himself.

                _Today_. It's what he decided when he woke up. Josephine has spoken of love and chocolate for a fortnight, and Lavellan's smile's grown dimmer in the shadows of her excitement. It's Matchmaker Day, a chance for gentle confessions and an opportunity for lovers to choose each other again—a liberty that was abruptly taken away from her. He knows her suffering. And he knows he can't cower from what she'd die a thousand deaths to possess once more, a mere glimpse of her lover, gone, a fate he could have known. He owes it to her, if nothing else, to honor the ways of his heart. Because love is rare, a gift to be treasured, and he's dismissed his chance for far too long.

                Dorian's stopped waiting. He stands proud and alluring on the other side of the door—Cullen nearly bumps into him as he finally pushes it open, flowers crushed between heaving chests. A chuckle flies by, croaky—probably his own—and he fumbles with muttered apologies until he catches Dorian's gaze and he stills there with a lump in his throat, intent and longing veiled by the same hesitation. There's a thousand words he could say, but even Dorian's smile trembles, and he lets him in as his breath bolts out, weaker on his feet.

                His scent eclipses the flowery fragrance refreshing the room. Dorian smells of earth and sun and something spicy, and it's all Cullen can focus on as they sit for a game of chess. Neither of them are concentrated. Dorian came for the same reason Cullen meant to leave, and they met half-way, a board set inbetween unresolved passions. It was his idea, a lure to delay the inevitable as Dorian took the bouquet with colored cheeks, a sight he had never expected from him. It's still there on his skin, paler now, and it burns warmer every time their eyes lock, creeping up Cullen's own face. They speak of his sister and her imminent arrival. They speak of Cassandra, and her potential future as the next Divine. They speak of the Champion of Kirkwall and his disappearance, and Varric's knowing smile, because of course he knows. They speak of Solas. _Nobody knows_. They speak of him and Lavellan, of Josephine and her chocolate, and the conversation drops to a whisper and then they speak no more.

                Cullen's smile wavers as Dorian's fingers reach his across the board. A sigh stumbles over his lips, broken and hoarse—he doesn't mean to sigh. If anything, he's fairly certain he's been holding his breath since the moment Dorian entered the room. Perhaps he hasn't. He doesn't know anything anymore, nothing other than the contrast of Dorian's skin against his own, nothing other than his hand seeking his, tentative touches and cautious fascination. He blinks lazily, swiveling his gaze back towards Dorian and oh, _he's definitely breathing_ , because it hitches spectacularly at the sight of him. He looks poised, as he always does, but beyond that, there's apprehension in his eyes, brows slightly arched; there's a faint question there, hesitant, and it's all Cullen needs to answer, because he never wants to see such disquiet on his face again.

                He stands up, prompting Dorian to follow suit; he senses an apology on the verge of breaching his lips and he shakes his head to silence him, rounding the board and closing the distance between them. There's such depth in Dorian's eyes. Wide and dark, searching his. He responds with a smile, face lowering until his forehead touches his, and he _breathes_ then, willingly, a long exhale that softens his stance. He feels Dorian's fingers on his arm, warm and light but _firm_ , and he doesn't know what to do with his own, gently pressed against his jaw.

                _Cullen._

His name touches his own skin in a thick whisper, and he hums along, lashes drooping low as Dorian nuzzles the tip of his nose, catching his sigh. He drifts towards him, _against him,_ and he's falling, warmth seeking warmth until lips brush against lips, once, twice, and they linger there, hovering in sweet agony. _Dorian_ , he thinks he says, and he must have, because he nods, slowly, lazy, breath heavier as their lips meet again, longer, a muffled sound in the back of his throat.

                And everything changes.

                Calloused fingers cup Dorian's face, pulling him closer, kissing him with the same kind of desperation his blood seems to know, wild in his veins. _It hurts_. It hurts because he's never felt this good before, and he doesn't know why he's waited so long. Dorian moans against him, shivers, and Cullen's hands drop to his arms, his sides, around his waist and hard against the small of his back, and it's not enough, because he wishes he could touch him everywhere, all at once, and he can't. Dorian's fingers are in his hair, twisted sharp, his body continually pushing against his own as if trying to melt into him, and Cullen curls around his shape, a perfect fit. And this is it. Dorian. _His armor_. It's what it feels like, and it's an odd comparison, but he's so far past scrutinizing his feelings in search of flaws. He surrenders here, wrapped around him and giving him everything he has, everything _he is_ , lips avid against his, parted and eager, a note of urgency.

                He doesn't know how long they stay there, clinging to each other in the dark of his quarters. All he knows is that his neck has begun hurting a hundred sighs ago, and he'll gladly take a hundred more if it means kissing him longer, if it means exploring him further. He likes the feel of his body against his, the sharp pull of dainty fingers in his hair. He likes the taste of him on his tongue, the smooth tease of his mustache on his skin. He likes the hitch in his breath when he nibbles on his lower lip, and the groans grazing his throat when his mouth runs open in the crook of his neck. He likes the hardened shape of his shaft lightly pressed against his own, and in the middle of a timid thrust, he remembers a conversation.

                A conversation.

_Maker's breath, of all things—_

                He nearly admonishes himself, vaguely, but no. It's relevant. He remembers because Dorian has told him, once, perhaps in passing interest, that men in Tevinter were never free in their affections. Never openly. Never seriously. He remembers because he's told him, perhaps in contrite warning, that men in Tevinter couldn't ever dream of more.

                He stills against him. Dorian's breath is harsh on his lips, and he pulls back, just enough to steal a glance. A shadow passes there in his gaze, and before dread can fully settle, Cullen cups his face again, eyes locked into his.

                "This is... more, Dorian," he tells him, determination and vehemence in the tenderness of his whisper. Dorian frowns in momentary confusion, and he fears that he won't remember, that the moment's broken, but a sigh reaches his lips and his stare softens; a chuckle shakes his shoulders, and there's such warmth in his eyes, such _relief_ , Cullen's heart sinks lower, arms snaking around him to hold him tight once more.

                "I would never have come back if it weren't... _Amatus_ ," he smiles a knowing smile, and Cullen's mouth widens in turn, closing his eyes as Dorian's hands gently caress his face.

                _Amatus_. He isn't exactly sure what it means, but he feels its significance, deep in his guts and wild in his chest, causing his head to swim. He'll ask him. Later. When his forehead doesn't rest against Dorian's, stolen kisses and tender nuzzles. When he's able to will his hands off him, and his blood doesn't pound so hard in his temples.

                It might take a while.


End file.
